Home for Christmas
by Genevievey
Summary: Peter & Assumpta Clifford bring their children back to Wicklow, for the second Christmas in a row.


**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: _**_This - the first post-Reckoning AU I've ever attempted - was inspired when I came across Dervla Kirwan's gorgeous recording of 'A Visit From Saint Nicholas'...and showed it to friend, and fellow Ballykea fangirl, Emily (creator of the "ballykea" tumblr blog). There was much general flailing...and this fic resulted._

_I hope this spreads a little festive cheer to someone. Merry Christmas to all - and to Emily in particular! x_

* * *

**Home for Christmas****  
**  
***  
**_Oh, but this evening  
Can be a holy night  
_*

Marriage – so the 'realists' tell us – is inevitably a matter of compromise.

And, however revoltingly happy they might have looked, this was certainly proving the case for Peter and Assumpta Clifford.

Actually, there was a certain irony in the fact that, due to their refusal (or inability) to compromise on the point of spending their lives together, they had no choice _but_ to compromise on just about everything else. After all, when an ex-priest from Manchester marries an ex-publican from Wicklow, things are bound to get complicated.

There was the matter of where to live – and it soon became clear that Ireland wasn't really an option, for the first little while at least. Besides, Peter's siblings wanted to support him, to welcome Assumpta to the family, to see them nicely set up – so Manchester it was. And really, it suited them fine – Assumpta had always been adaptable – but they both had days of missing wide green fields, and the soothing murmur of the River Angel. Fionn missed it even more, of course – but then, Assumpta simply couldn't have moved without him.

Then, not very long afterward, there came the matter of what to name their first child. That was always going to be something of a compromise, given that one family was full of Sallys and Johns, the other composed almost entirely of Nualas and Paidraigs and Reubens.

It might have been less pointed to choose something generic – but Peter had loved Ireland even before he loved his wife, so it wasn't too difficult to settle on _Aislinn_ for their first daughter. When the second child came along a few years later, Assumpta was all too happy to name him Benjamin, after Peter's dearest older cousin.

However, as the years passed, one matter was becoming less an issue of compromise than an actual point of contention. This was the issue of family traditions – and Christmas ones in particular.

It was all something of a testament to the fact that, when you become a parent, you suddenly begin to see things very differently. The first Christmas that Peter and Assumpta spent together had been casual in the extreme – and _absolutely wonderful_. They'd bought a small chicken from a supermarket, and cooked a little roast together in the flat they were minding for Peter's sister Angela, while she was holidaying abroad. They'd rugged up warm and wandered round the streets of Manchester, half a block behind a bunch of carollers; laughing together, and stopping to point at all the lights. They couldn't have imagined anything more perfect, back then.

But now that they had children – two children, who were getting old enough to remember what they'd done the Christmas before – festive traditions suddenly seemed to matter more, and need to be more precise. Which was where the complications arose.

It's funny how many little differences there can be in the way two Catholic families celebrate Christmas. Nationality was a factor, of course. Growing up, Assumpta had always referred to Santa Claus as "Santy", as Irish children often did – while Peter had known the jolly old fellow as "Father Christmas". As such, when Aislinn came along and the mysterious gift-giver began his appearances, there was some contention over exactly what their daughter should call him. So much so that, last year, Aislinn had combined the two – out of confusion or compromise, they couldn't be sure – and had written a letter to "Santy Christmas". That had been sweet, and hilarious – and such disagreements were always good-natured, of course – but they _were_ disagreements, all the same. Some things never change.

One thing that was close to becoming a tradition had started almost by accident. After spending their first few Christmasses as a family quite sporadically – in various English towns with Peter's extended family, and then once recently in Dublin – the year just previous they'd decided to brave Wicklow (for longer than their previous, flying visits). Niamh had immediately offered to put them up in Ballykea, at some place of Brian's – but the Cliffords had found a neat little house that was for rent over Christmas, not far from The Meeting of the Waters. Even Assumpta had to admit that it was perfect – it was barely ten minutes' drive from Ballykissangel, but nicely secluded in the countryside.

That last Christmas had been quite a success – and it meant something to both of them, to spend the festive season in the county where they met – so Peter had been quick to suggest they do the same this year. When they'd phoned the landlady to enquire, she'd asked them (jokingly, they thought) whether they wanted to book the place for the Christmas after that, as well. Yes, it certainly was in danger of becoming a tradition.

And so it was, that, come 7:30 on Christmas Eve, Peter stood in the kitchen of their rented cottage, shirt-sleeves rolled up as he lifted a tray of mince pies out of the oven. He placed them gingerly on the bench, and discarded the oven-mit just as Assumpta breezed in from the half-lit hallway – a mangled string of tinsel cast scarf-like about her neck.

"How'd they turn out?"  
"Quite respectably, I think," replied her husband, not without a little pride. "Is the tree still upright?" Peter nodded in the direction of the lounge, from whence travelled the sound of two young children, singing and stomping about gleefully.  
"Essentially. Though, if it's anything like me, _one_ more rendition of 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town' will be the end of it."

She sat down heavily at the kitchen table, running a hand through her hair – but Assumpta's expression was a smile of exhausted happiness. That was pretty much a constant state, actually, when she was in the company of her children. The woman untangled the tinsel from around her neck, and Peter grinned, turning to fill the kettle and make some coffee.

"Speaking of which…the gifts are still in the second suitcase, the red one. Yours as well, so don't go peeking."  
"I'm still not sure about the present thing, you know," Assumpta replied, reaching to prepare the mugs he'd set out, and heaping in spoonfulls of coffee. "The way my parents did it – with _all _presents coming from Santy, even the ones for Mum and Dad – worked really well. You get the spirit of giving, without the sense of obligation."  
"I'm not sure three-year-olds _have _a sense of obligation," her husband put in.  
"_And _it helps to build a warmer, more optimistic world-view, ya know? The idea that there's a genuinely nice old man somewhere out there, who gives _everyone_ a present, even though he never gets one in return."  
"What," said Peter, stirring her coffee with a slight arch of his eyebrow, "like _unconditional love_, you mean?"  
Assumpta met his gaze steadily, an exasperated little smile playing at her lips as she took his pointed doctrinal reference. But they'd long ago made a truce on matters of theology – besides which, they shared far too many philosophies (and far too much love) for her to mind his little references. And he never pushed it.

"I think it's proof enough of _our _unconditional love that we haven't disowned Ben for scratching the side of the car," Peter went on, in a deliberately lighter vein – making Assumpta laugh and sigh in the same breath.

"When I was a kid, though," she continued, "everyone got a present from Santy on Christmas morning. And of course Mum and Dad would get themselves things they really needed – and Dad always pretended to grumble about it, saying that we got toys but he only ever got boring stuff, tools to work with – and 'the next time he saw Santy, he'd have a good strong word with him about it'. _Well_, no one wants their Da to yell at Santy Claus – so the next year, in Dublin, when we saw some bloke dressed up taking photos in the shops, there I was, trying to distract Dad and pull him to the other end of the shop, so that Santy could get away…"

Peter, who hadn't heard that story in its entirety before, laughed fondly – imagining his wife as a rampageous little girl. He passed her a mug, and took a sip from his own.  
"Hah, that's brilliant. But isn't it nice to give openly personal, family gifts as well? People go on about the commercialism of Christmas, but it doesn't have to be that way. It certainly wasn't in my family; with four kids, cousins, and Mum staying at home. It's the _thought _that goes into a gift – to and from all members of the family. Tell me you'd rather do without the angel that Aislinn made for you at kindy, last year…"  
Assumpta met his knowing smile, unable to argue. They both knew she treasured each and every little gift her children made her – _and_ every incomprehensible 'work of art'. She sighed in concession, and took a sip of her coffee.

"We always had thought-out personal gifts for each other, as well as something from Father Christmas," explained Peter. "And the night before, Mum would always read us 'A Visit From Saint Nicholas' – which was a mistake, really, because then we'd try to stay awake and listen for him."  
Her husband was smiling tenderly at the bare kitchen table – and Assumpta reached to squeeze his hand around the coffee mug. She was just wondering why she hadn't heard of that tradition before, when Peter looked up, smiled at her, and explained.  
"Paul found our old copy in storage just this year – he gave it to me, since his kids are a bit too old now, he reckons."

Assumpta smiled again, and was on the point of leaning towards her husband, when there was a pattering in the hall – and a moment later Aislinn appeared. She was closely followed by little Ben, who held both ends of a string of tinsel, which was wrapped around his sister in the manner of reins.

Two more bright, festive little things could hardly be imagined – the children were all glowing eyes, and tousled hair, and flushed, rosy cheeks. Both were rugged up in the Christmas sweaters that Auntie Angela had given them last week, and Aislinn's fingers bunched in the skirt of the velvety green dress that she'd chosen herself for Christmas Eve.

"Are we going soon?" the five-year-old enquired, pushing wild dark hair out of her eyes. Ben flicked his 'reins' eagerly. "Are we?" he echoed, panting with the exhausting excitement of a little boy of three. The parents glanced at each other, and then their watches.  
"Soon," nodded Peter, with a smile as Ben absently flapped the long sleeves of his sweater. "Mum and I just have to get changed, and then we'll be there in time for dinner at eight."  
"But I'm starving _now_," sighed Aislinn, suddenly forlorn, sniffing at the baking-scented air.

Peter sighed – and, with an indulgent smile to his wife, turned to lift two perfect mince pies from the cooling rack.  
"Just one each, mind – there'll be a big dinner waiting for us at Fitzgerald's. And we've got to save one for Father Christmas."  
"And be careful," Assumpta called out, as her children bounded towards the door. "If you spill those on the landlady's carpet, _Santy_ might not come at all."  
"We'll be careful, Mum," Aislinn assured her, with a beaming little smile over her shoulder, before she and her brother disappeared again into the hall.

Assumpta sighed and got to her feet, stretching out her tired muscles. She'd spent the past half-hour lifting Ben and Aislinn, so that they could hang decorations all the way up the tree.  
"Right then, s'pose we'd better get going."

There was a sort of resignation in her tone, a trepidation – something Peter not only recognised, but shared. While a part of him longed to see Ballykea again – to walk that familiar main street once more, and find their old friends waiting in their pub – another part of him was all too aware that he was no longer 'good Father Peter', and that things could never be the same.

Not that he'd _ever_ want them to be. Not when he had _this_.

Looking up, he found Assumpta sidling towards him – and wondered if his musings had been so very obvious on his face. She seemed to be moving to reassure him. His wife wrapped an arm around his torso, leant…over his shoulder…and plucked a mince pie from the bench-top! Peter made a noise of disbelief as she leaned back again, but the woman was entirely shameless. She took a bite right under his nose, grinned cheekily, and pulled away – with a fruity, cinnamon-scented kiss to his cheek.

"Coming?" Assumpta enquired, without looking back, and Peter shook his head. As she knew he would, he followed his wife, to the rented bedroom that was in danger of feeling like _theirs_.

* * *

"Right," said Peter, as the family queued up in the hall a while later. "Are we all ready?"  
"Yes!" Ben volunteered cheerfully, as though the question were intended specifically for him.  
He grinned at his son, but looked to Assumpta – who, in deep-red coat and dark scarf, seemed even more gorgeous than usual, for no discernable reason – as she bent to button Aislinn's coat.  
"Does everybody have their gloves?"  
"Yes."  
"Does Ben have Mr. Cuddles?"  
"Yes!"  
"Does Mum have her handbag?"  
"For heaven's sake, Peter."  
"Then off we go!"  
"Hurray!"

Assumpta had just got Ben buckled into his car-seat, when she looked up to find Peter regarding her with a thoughtful smile.  
"Erm, hang on a minute," he said, suddenly, leaving the keys on the roof of the car.  
"Where's Dad going?" Aislinn wondered – just as her mother silently wondered the very same thing.  
"I'm just going to chuck another log on the fire," Peter called over his shoulder, fumbling for the house keys in his pocket. Assumpta nodded, and climbed in, reaching to turn on the heater for her shivering children.

But soon enough the car had warmed up, and Peter was climbing into the driver's seat at last.  
"Did ya have to chop down a tree first?" Assumpta enquired dryly, toying impatiently with the gloves in her lap. Her husband only shrugged apologetically.

Aislinn, who had been leaning across Ben's lap to see out his window, tapped her father on the shoulder. "We don't have a very big chimney here, do we, Dad?"  
"Err, not really… Oh, you mean for Father Christmas?"  
The girl nodded, turning to lean forward in the gap between the two front seats.  
"Don't worry, sweetie," Assumpta smiled over her shoulder, "Santy can get down any chimney he wants to, as long as the children have been good."  
"Yes, _Father Christmas _is a clever chap, that way," Peter agreed, with a pointed smirk to his wife.

Aislinn looked from one parent to the other, recognizing the continuation of their Santa 'argument', and squared her little shoulders.  
"Miss Walshe told us that Christmas is about peace on Earth, and goodwill to men. People stop fighting all their wars and things and be nice to each other, at Christmas time," she informed them, matter-of-factly – and with just as much subtlety as a child can muster. (Which isn't much.)

Peter's voice was _almost_ steady, as he managed to say, "Yes. That's quite right."  
Assumpta had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at her daughter's needless, sweet attempt at peace-making. Grinning, she leant across the gearbox to murmur in Peter's ear.  
"That kid is _your daughter_."  
"I should hope so," her husband deadpanned, but grinned fondly as he reached for the ignition. "Sit back in your seat, now, love – we're on our way."

They eased carefully down the narrow, sloping road onto the highway, and were soon on their way through the dark countryside, toward Ballykissangel. A rousing rendition of 'Jingle Bells' seemed inevitable – Peter altering the verse to _"Dashing through the snow, off to Ballykea…"_ – and it only ceased when Aislinn insisted that she saw snowflakes falling outside. ("Very little ones…"). Barely a minute later, they were nearing that so-familiar bridge. A silent glance passed between husband and wife – in which was communicated a thousand things at once.

"I still feel sort of like we're manipulating their Christmas spirit," muttered Peter, with a half-anxious glance at some villagers cavorting on the bridge. But Assumpta was looking straight ahead at the pub, a faintly-defiant glow about her features.  
"Well, if they're _really_ such good Catholics, then, like our daughter said, they should advocate peace on Earth and goodwill to _all mankind_ – ex-priests and temptresses included."  
Peter scoffed – but let his eyes travel appreciatively over his wife, all the same – and she smacked him on the knee, smirking in spite of herself.

But then they pulled up outside Fitzgerald's, and Assumpta's attention was drawn elsewhere. When Peter turned off the motor, he looked across to find her smiling tenderly up at the sign, all bedecked in coloured lights.  
"It's Christmas, alright," she breathed, with a little catch in her voice.

"We're at Mum's pub," Aislinn informed her little brother – in case he'd forgotten from last year.  
"_Our _pub," Assumpta corrected her, with a little smile to Peter, and Ben gave an eager 'hurray' regardless.  
"Can we eat now?"

To be honest, they didn't really have an option – Niamh would have forced roast chicken down their throats if they'd already had a ten-course meal. Which is to say that the Cliffords were warmly welcomed.

Fitzgerald's looked…well, almost the same. With Niamh managing the place on the Cliffords' behalf – and the bar primarily tended by a woman named Oonagh Dooley – the place was in good hands. Hands that even the most pious villagers could find no moral fault with. It was doing reasonable business, too – and though they still weren't making _much _of a profit, it was a help to the Cliffords to have that extra little bit of income. But even if that hadn't been the case, Assumpta could never bring herself to sell her family home – and Peter would never want her to. It had become a home to him too, after all.

Fitzgerald's was warm and bright this Christmas Eve, and quite full of people enjoying festive dinners – but Niamh had made sure the bar was free, for the honoured guests (honoured owners), and their old friends. The greetings were effusive, and very tactile. In fact, it was a mercy Peter didn't have his arm shaken off by Brendan and Padraig – that Assumpta didn't suffocate in Niamh's tight hug – that Ambrose's smile didn't split his face in half, when Kieran offered to show Ben the Christmas tree.

They made quite a party, squashed together round the bar – and there was so much to talk about that no-one had _time_ to worry whether a person at the next table might be having uncharitable thoughts about the ex-publican and the ex-priest. The children – all of them – played by the fireplace, as Peter had always imagined that they might. It _was_ bittersweet, to be in that so-familiar place as visitors – but oh, the sweetness of it was so very potent.

When they'd finished up their meals, Assumpta ran around behind the bar to pour everyone drinks with a giddy grin – "got to keep her hand in," said Brendan – and Peter, who was chatting away with Padraig, was astounded (almost horrified) to realise that Kevin was now nearly eighteen.

"I'm thinkin' of university next year, maybe," shrugged the young man – just as freckly as the boy they'd known, and no less earnest. "If I do, it'll be _his_ fault."  
He nodded towards Brendan, who feigned ridiculous innocence.  
"I wouldn't be at all surprised," Assumpta grinned across the bar, in a camouflaged sort of compliment to the teacher – who had been a surrogate-father in difficult times. "I know _I_ wouldn't have ended up there if it weren't for him."  
"Mea culpa," Brendan sighed, raising his eyes apologetically to the heavens, and Siobhan scoffed. Assumpta chuckled.  
"Ah, but you'll love it, Kev. When I was at college-"  
"Ack!" Padraig interrupted, raising a hand from his pint to shush her. "Don't go givin' him ideas."

Watching Assumpta laugh across the bar – with Brendan and Padraig, and Niamh and Ambrose and Siobhan – Peter mused that he might very well have travelled back in time six years, and viewed a similar scene. Except that, now, he was free to put his arm around that incredible woman, and laugh with her just as long and openly as he wanted to – and they would be going home together. With their children.

"Aish, Ben! Would ya come here, please?"  
The children scampered over as everyone began to get to their feet, preparing to head up the road for Midnight Mass. Assumpta bent to inspect her children.  
"Better fix your hair a wee bit, love," she muttered, patting down her pockets to find a comb. Brendan, who was standing nearby with Siobhan, grinned down at the mother and daughter, his eyes sparkling.  
"Assumpta Fitzgerald fixing someone else's hair – who'd 've thought we'd see the day, eh now?"  
Assumpta shook her head in feigned exasperation; but the little smile between them was one of genuine (and mutual) pride.

Outside, the bells of St. Joseph's began to chime, and everyone headed out into the chilly night. Joining the small throng heading for the steeple, Assumpta slipped a hand into her husband's – holding Ben's little mitten with the other. Peter smiled across at his wife, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. The Cliffords had come to a compromise on the matter of church-going, as well – back in Manchester, Peter went to Mass most weekends, and always prayed at home. Sometimes Assumpta would go with him, sometimes she wouldn't – and the same with the children. But on Easter or Christmas, they all went together – and here they had the comfort of knowing that Father Mac would be officiating in Cilldargan, on such an important occasion as Christmas Eve.

The children were buzzing, straining against their parents' grip, as they were swept along with the crowd towards St. Joseph's.  
"This is where Daddy used to be a priest, before he met Mum," Aislinn reminded her brother helpfully, and Assumpta shushed her daughter, blushing. But she patted the girl on the head in affirmation; and Peter gave his wife an open smile, as if to say, _Aren't you glad that I did?  
_She could hardly help but smile back.

Assumpta did not feel defensive, upon entering St. Joseph's Church. She felt…a vicarious sort of _wonder_ – the same wonder that shone on her daughter's face, and her son's, as they took in the barely-familiar scene. The high, arched ceilings and the old-fashioned windows, the wooden pews that weren't as soft and comfy as the cushioned ones in Manchester – all of it somehow made the experience more fascinating to them. The nativity scene, and the votary candles, and the different priest up there at the altar; and everyone with accents like their Mum's.

It had taken her a while to admit it to her husband, but the thing Assumpta had always quite liked about church was the sense of community, and particularly the singing. When the population of Ballykissangel raised their voices together, rough and pure alike, in _Silent Night_ – just the way they'd used to when she was no taller than Aislinn – Assumpta's smile turned a little watery. Becoming a mother had softened her, there was no doubt about it…or perhaps it was falling for Peter that had done that? Either way, her husband noticed, and squeezed her hand lovingly.

By _Away In a Manger_, Ben was nestled sleepily under Peter's arm – which was something of a relief, actually, because somehow the little boy had smuggled a candy-cane into church, hidden up his sleeve, and the wrapper had rustled loudly right through Communion.

But he perked up again just as Mass ended, in time to help Aislinn carry the holly wreaths that were handed out at the door. An extension of the Prayers for the Dead, it was an Irish tradition to lay a wreath on the graves of loved ones at Christmas time. Assumpta actually managed a genuine smile to Kathleen – who she knew had arranged the greenery for her community – even while Peter deliberately guided the children towards the other wreath-bearer, so that the pious woman would not be forced to interact with the scandalous Cliffords. It had to be said, he was very considerate, that way.

Assumpta's parents were buried nearby each other in St. Joseph's churchyard – despite the fact that they'd been divorced several years by the time of theirs deaths. But tonight wasn't about the organized Church that had overseen her parents' lives…it was about _family_; the one she had now, and the Mum and Da who had passed on.

So it was with nothing but…tenderness, that Assumpta let Ben and Aislinn help her lay wreaths for 'Granny Fiona and Granddad Jim'. They'd done the same last year – but both children seemed to have a better idea, this year, of what it was about. Peter put an arm about his wife's shoulders, and asked Aislinn whether she'd still got a wreath left. The senior Cliffords were of course buried back in Manchester – but the rented cottage had a tiny grotto out the back, and Peter liked to lay a wreath there, for his parents.

After a warm farewell to Niamh – who was laying a wreath for her Mammy, with Kieran and Brian – and a promise to visit again before they left Wicklow, the four of them climbed into the car again, to head back to the cottage. Thankfully it wasn't far – but even so, Aislinn and Ben were nearly asleep in the back. But then, that wasn't a bad thing – it allowed for a good seven minutes of silent, tender glances between their parents.

If they _had_ been sleepy, the blast of freezing air when they stepped from the car certainly woke them up again. Peter hustled his family inside, everyone stopping in the hallway to shrug off their coats and scarves, and hang them on the hooks.  
"Now, you two," said Assumpta, seriously, "Santy'll be on his way any minute – don't you think you'd better be getting to bed?"

But Aislinn – who had headed straight into the lounge, drawn to the sparkling tree and the cosy fireplace – spun around, her little face all aglow.  
"He's already been! Ma, Dad, he's _been_!"

Assumpta's astonishment was only slightly less than Ben's – he heaved an enormous gasp and ran to the hearth, while his mother just stared.  
"You've got one too, Mum," Aislinn thrilled, peeking into the third of four stockings. "There's something for everyone! Look, Ben!"  
Peter – who had taken his time in following them, now leaning in the doorway – shook his head in a very good impression of surprise. It might have fooled even Assumpta, if his eyes hadn't sparkled so very obviously.

"He must've paid us a visit while we were at Mass," Peter surmised, deliberately avoiding his wife's searching gaze. Assumpta coughed a little, and shook her head in grinning wonder.  
"Well, would ya look at that… Whaddaya reckon, Aish? Ben?"  
"Why don't we all sit down? And bring our gifts too, please," said Peter.

In an instant they were all settled on the sofa and the floor, each with a present on their laps. The children were allowed to open theirs first – putting them out of their glorious misery. Aislinn was thrilled to find the magic pens she'd asked for – the ones that turned different colours when you ran the special pen over them – and Ben couldn't have been happier with his new pirate costume (eye-patch included). He insisted on getting into it immediately – to the great amusement of his parents and sister.

"What did Santy get _you_, Mum?"  
"Well, let's see," grinned Assumpta – who, caught up in the adorableness of her piratical son, had nearly forgotten the parcel on her lap. The one that was entirely unfamiliar to her. She shot a curious glance at her husband, and then made a great show of ripping eagerly into the paper. It was a bulky package, which was revealed to contain…a book. A book of W.B. Yeats's poetry, which once– and _only once_, she was sure – she'd told Peter how much she adored, and had muddled a verse or two of, after some glasses of wine. And he'd remembered.

Assumpta looked up from the gift on her lap, her eyes travelling directly to Peter; who'd been watching her intently, and, now, with satisfaction.  
"What's yours?" asked Ben, pulling at the paper still half-covering her gift, and pushing up his eye-patch so he could see.  
"A book. Exactly the one I wanted, too."  
"Father Christmas is clever like that," Aislinn explained, leaning against her mother's knee to inspect the cover. Assumpta tried to reign in her smile, as, looking across at Peter, she nodded quite seriously.  
"He's a wonderful man, alright."

At the other end of the couch, Peter Clifford was looking distinctly pleased with himself. He seemed to be enjoying not only the fact that Assumpta quite obviously wanted to kiss him, but alsothat she _couldn't _be seen to thank himfor 'Santy's' gift, in front of the children. It was a silly little victory, that she didn't mind allowing him – not in the slightest. That clever, ridiculous, _wonderful_ man.

"What about you, Dad?"  
"Oh, my turn, is it? Right…"  
He broke Assumpta's gaze reluctantly, to look down at his parcel – which he unwrapped to reveal a set of cookie-cutters, all shaped like lions and elephants. Assumpta laughed. She hadn't seen those before – they were evidently something Peter had chosen for himself.

"Cool!" gushed Aislinn, immediately passing them to Ben for inspection – and approval, naturally.  
"They are pretty cool," Peter agreed. "But I must say…you lot all got toys and books and things, and I just get kitchen utensils, to bake things for _you_ with. I'm not sure it's fair. I might have to have a word with Father Christmas, next time I see him…"

While Assumpta just about_ combusted_ with amused adoration, their children erupted into fervent protests amid the discarded wrapping.

"Don't, Daddy!"  
"But Dad…they're really cool, though! And you don't _have _to share the biscuits. Ben and I will help you make them, and then you can eat them _all _yourself – right, Ben?"  
The little boy nodded urgently – Assumpta, meanwhile, _tried_ to keep her shoulders from shaking with repressed mirth. Peter seemed to think for a second, and then he shrugged indulgently.  
"I don't think I could eat that many biscuits by myself," – his wife snorted in contention – "and anyway, as long as I get the crocodiles to match next year, I won't be too put out. And they _are_ pretty neat. You're right."

Assumpta – who had just about composed herself by this point, but was still absolutely glowing –leaned forward in her seat.  
"Now, I think it's well and truly time we were all in bed. There'll be a few more presents and lots to do tomorrow."  
"Yes, Mum," yawned Aislinn, getting to her feet and reaching to help Ben up.  
"You go on – I'll be there to help Ben into his PJs in a minute."  
"Okay."

They stood to usher their children from the room – but didn't follow them immediately. Assumpta detained her husband, slipping round in front of him. With the coloured lights casting a glow across his features, Peter offered her a warm, crooked smile – and God, but he was gorgeous.

"You," she said, almost accusingly, as she pressed closer against him, "are…_perfect_, damn it."  
"Can I get that in writing?" her husband teased, grinning – sliding one hand indulgently up her back, relishing the softness of her sweater. Assumpta only shook her head in amusement, her own hands settling at his shoulders, and lifted her face to kiss him.

It had long ago ceased to be surprising – the fact that she really was allowed to kiss Peter Clifford – but it never ceased to be wonderful. The warmth of his mouth, the enticing scent of him, the way his lightest touch still warmed her skin…  
He sighed contentment against her lips as Assumpta's arms slipped round his neck.

"Mm." She murmured as they parted, reluctantly. "S'pose I'd better go and check that Cap'n Ben isn't sleeping in his eye-patch…"  
"S'pose so," Peter chuckled, loosening his arms around her waist. "I'll be in in a minute, to tuck them in."  
Assumpta paused in the doorway, looking over her shoulder. "You've hidden the other presents, still, haven't you? The family ones?"

Her husband only nodded; regarding her with such a warm, steady, penetrating smile that Assumpta found it necessary to hurry from the room. Otherwise she would have had to kiss him again, or give him a smack – neither of which they had time for.

Peter grinned to himself, as he bent to gather the torn-up wrapping paper.

Could there be a happier man in Wicklow, at that moment? Or the world?

Come to think of it, he didn't even care if there _was_. Peter Clifford had no need to be the 'happiest' of men – he was blessed quite beyond measure as it was. He flicked off the overhead light, pausing for a second to admire the glow of the Christmas tree – and sauntered out of the lounge. It was a really nice little house, this, for a holiday. Cosy.

When he'd disposed of the wrapping paper, and tossed his sweater on their bed, Peter tiptoed down the hall to the children's bedroom. He had been all ready to bluster in with jokes and tickles – but then, with the door ajar as it was, he noticed that Aislinn's bed was still empty. However, the room was not silent.

"…in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.  
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,  
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads…"

Hidden on the threshold, Peter's mouth twisted into a tender, tremulous smile. Around the corner, snuggled in Ben's bed, his wife and children were sharing the old Clifford copy of "A Visit from Saint Nicholas". He knew it.

He could hear their deliberate 'nestling'.

"When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter!  
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.  
Away to the window I flew like a flash,  
Tore open the windows, and threw up the sash."

Peter had to bite his lip, as he heard Assumpta's tone grow still warmer. She was getting carried away, with enthusiastic expression – and soon putting on a deeper, English voice for Old Saint Nick.

"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!  
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!"

She always had been a dramatic one, his wife. And _good God_, did he love her.

He ached to go and take them in his arms, all three of them – and yet he wouldn't disturb this moment for the world.

"He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,  
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:  
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,  
_Happy Christmas to all – and to all, a good night_."

In a year or so, thought Peter, they'd know that last line off by heart.

Just as Ben and Aislinn applauded round the blankets, Peter cleared his throat a little; and finally stepped round and through the doorway. His beloved little family – sitting just as he'd imagined, with the children snuggled on Assumpta's lap – all looked up at once, and smiled brightly.

"Mum's been reading to us," explained Aislinn, rather superfluously, sliding off the edge of the bed to return to her own.  
"And a good choice, too, I see," Peter remarked; his voice not quite even, despite best efforts. Assumpta was looking at him with so much honest love in those dark eyes.

_I wish Mum had known her._

He caught Aislinn under the arms as she went past him, lifting her into his arms, and then into her bed – much to the little girl's delight. She was all cosily dressed in her winter pyjamas.

Grinning at this display, Assumpta followed suit; tipping Ben gently from her lap back onto the mattress, and bending to tuck him in. He giggled when she attacked his little forehead with eager kisses.

"Goodnight, sweetheart. Goodnight Aislinn, love. Sweet dreams."  
"Night-night," whispered Peter, as they moved to the doorway, tiptoeing out into the hall. "We love you, very much."  
"Love you too," Aislinn yawned – though Ben seemed to think a sleepy "Mm" quite sufficient. With Assumpta smiling over his shoulder, Peter carefully pulled the door to – leaving a gap so that light from the hall could shine in for their children.

They undressed silently, in the soft glow of bedside lamps – observing a hundred little nameless domestic customs. The way she slipped her shoes off, nudging them to wait by his; the way he placed his watch beside the lamp; the way she pulled back the covers enough for the both of them, plumping the pillows.

The way he came up behind her when she lingered at the mirror, pressing a kiss to her neck while she removed her earrings – that was something tender, something sweet. But not unpredictable, on such an evening. (Or ever.)

The sheets were crisp and cold – but they would warm them. Assumpta's dark head settled at his shoulder, one pale arm curling across his chest.  
"They're going to wake us up at some ungodly hour again, aren't they?" she murmured, as Peter reached across to get the light. "Even despite Santy's early visit."  
"Oh, I'd say that's a given," agreed her husband, his arms drawing her closer: her softness, her warmth. "What time did you used to wake up on Christmas, when _you_ were five?"  
"Ehm…five o'clockish? Oh, God…."  
"It was seven, for me. Which gives us an average of 6AM. How festive."  
Assumpta snorted, and nestled closer. Their breathing slowed, and evened out.

"Are you happy?" Peter whispered, into the silence.  
The woman's head raised from his shoulder sharply, turning to berate him for such a completely ridiculous question – but the words died on her lips when she met his eyes. Glittering in the dark.  
"Yes," was her simple reply – and it was all that needed to be said. Her eyes said everything else.

Assumpta's lips curved gently, and the gaze between them deepened – but then she sighed abruptly, falling back into the pillows.  
"Damn it – we'd better sleep."  
Peter gave a soft chuckle of concession, and they settled down again; not without reluctance. Even so, the way they held each other – bodies curved together – was as much of an embrace as is possible, when sleep is the object.

"Who came up with Midnight Mass, anyway?" she grumbled dozily, as they began to drop off.  
"The Irish, I think."  
"Oh, shut up. Darling."

They slept easily, until 6:08 on Christmas morning.

* * *

"IT'S CHRISTMAS! Christmas morning! MUM! DAD! Wake up!"

Peter Clifford rolled over, and gave a groan.  
"And to think I signed up for this."  
"Mm – what were you thinking?" his wife smirked; then, propping herself on one elbow, she leant down to remind him _exactly_ what he'd been thinking, the day they got married. Until the children came bounding in, landing heavily on the foot of the bed, and their parents' legs.

"Oof – good morning, you two. Sleep well?"  
Aislinn and Ben nodded vigorously – adorable in their matching red pyjamas.  
"Good," Assumpta grinned. "Because the last one to the tree's a rotten egg!"

Within an instant, there was an incredible flurry of blankets – and raucous giggles, and a thunder of bare feet racing down the hallway.

In the end, it was Peter who had to bear the shameful title – he chose to lag behind to fetch the camera. But then, it gave him a moment to stand back and just observe his little family, settled beneath their Christmas tree; so Peter didn't really mind the compromise.

He didn't mind _at all_.


End file.
